


i know i wanna be her run-to

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: Steve takes care of the reader on a hard day
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 60





	i know i wanna be her run-to

**Author's Note:**

> because everyone is very stressed right now, and the world is a mess, so have some well-timed fluff!

Sometimes, the world is too heavy. It settles atop your chest, leaving you Atlas, forced to hold up a world you don’t always want to be in. The sadness stretches out its thin, spindly fingers and draws you into its embrace, the numbness wrapping a blanket around it, leaving the discomfort and unease racing through your blood and poking each nerve.

Rather than attempting to slug through the day - class and class and lunch and more class - you settle deeper into your bed, tugging the blankets tight around you, a cocoon of darkness. Even beneath the warm, dark blanket, that feeling worms its way in; that heavy, twisting, crawling ache. The one that drags a scream up to your throat and drops it on your tongue; the one that takes your breath and doesn’t let go.

The phone rings sometime after ten, three hours into your commiseration, and you roll over in bed, snaking a hand out of the covers to snatch it out of its cubby and pull it back into the dark up to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Steve asks. “You missed Dot’s quiz. I had no one to cheat off of.”

That almost - _almost_ \- makes you laugh, but the uncomfortable feeling in your gut twists tighter. Another mistake you’ve made, and you don’t care enough to get out of bed.

“Sorry,” you say, “not feeling great.”

Steve pauses on the other end. “Nightmares?” He asks after a long moment.

_Yes, but more. More, so, so much more._

“No, just didn’t get much sleep last night. Plus, I think I have a fever.” Translation: _you haven’t gotten any sleep in three days._

“Do you want me to stop by? I can pick up ice cream.”

“You never cease to find reasons for ice cream.”

“Ice cream doesn’t need a reason,” he says. “So? Coming over?”

You purse your lips, curling into a smaller ball beneath your blankets.

Steve has seen you battle monsters, seen you face off against Russians, seen you argue with bastardous twelve-year-olds back at Scoops Ahoy. But he hasn’t seen you like this; broken, bent, hollow. You’re not the brave person he fell for; you’re a shell, a husk.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say.

You could practically hear his frown. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you say. “But thank you.”

“Get some rest, okay?”

You close your eyes, tears welling behind them, pricking and poking, desperate to break through.

“Okay,” you say, and pray he doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks.

-

Your bedroom door opens an hour later; your parents are still at work, which means it is _not_ them. Pushing the covers off your face, you lift your head to find Steve Harrington standing in the doorway, holding a grocery bag. He sets it on your desk and lifts his gaze to yours, lips turning down in a frown.

“Liar,” he says, cocking a brow. He doesn’t need to explain; you’ve been caught red-handed, _not_ sick.

“I’m fine, Steve. You didn’t need to come over.”

He snorts, and opens the bag, pulling out vitamins and fever medicines and stacking them on the desk. He tugs out a tub of ice cream - of course - and two bottles of your favorite drink, followed by plastic spoons.

“You forget,” he says, “I know you. And if you say you haven’t slept in a day, that really means you haven’t slept-” he pauses, noticing the tears beginning to spill down your cheeks. Shame colors your cheeks, but you can’t stop the tears, can’t stop the sobs bubbling up in your chest, can’t stop the _feeling_ clawing through you. “Hey. _Hey_.” He crosses to the bed, dropping down onto the edge and reaching for you. You let him pull you into his arms, half in his lap, feeling like a scared child clinging to safety, but unable to do anything but let him hold you.

“I got you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your head, voice muffled by your hair. “I got you.”

You suck in a shaking breath, pulling away to look at him through tear-blurred eyes. He reaches up to brush the damp and sweaty hairs off your forehead, your face hot and red and tear-streaked.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m sorry I’m such a….” A shuddering breath rolls through you, and you duck your chin, eyes clamping shut. Steve nudges your head back up with a finger, one arm wrapped around your waist, free hand settling against your cheek. His brows furrow and he shakes his head.

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry about.” He caresses your cheek with a thumb, the monotony of the motion poking through the numbness. “Wanna talk about it?” He inclines his head, concern weaving itself into his features, all undivided attention and care; all things you’re not sure you deserve.

You press your lips together, leaning into his chest, and his hand shifts from your cheek to your hair, stroking down the sleep-mussed strands.

“It’s so _much_ ,” you say softly. “I don’t even know how to explain, but it just…it feels like…like the whole fucking world is falling apart around me. Like I’m….in _limbo_ , floating around, no clue what to do. It’s like every _fucking_ thing is broken, including me, and I have no idea how to fix it. I don’t know how to stop fucking everything up.”

Sadness yawns open in Steve’s eyes, and he shakes his head again, dipping his forehead against yours.

“You,” he says, “are _not_ fucking everything up. And you’re not broken.”

“How do you know?” You ask, voice low and splintered. Steve pulls back to look at you, the sincerity in his eyes almost overwhelming.

“Because you’ve never been anything but whole,” he says. A tiny cry slips past your lips, and Steve tightens his grip around you. “The world might be fucked up, but it’s not your fault. Honestly, it’s a whole lot better with you in it. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. And not just because you’re a bad ass who took down a Demogogron, but because you did all of it, and kept your shit together, too.”

You let out a mirthless laugh. “Is this keeping my shit together?”

“You’re still standing,” he says. “And you’re trying.”

“And failing.”

Steve pulls back, lips turned down in a frown, his frustration evident; frustration not with you, but with the thing in your head that keeps you shackled.

“You’re not failing. You’re trying. And trying is all we can do.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

“It is,” he says. He ducks his chin again, sweeping his lips up to your nose, dropping a kiss to the tip and moving up to press another to your forehead. “And if it’s not, there’ll probably be more monsters to distract ourselves with.”

“One can only hope.”

He laughs, and the sound cracks the gates on the numb, sadness - but also affection and a tinge of hope - pushing through. A tear slips down your cheek, and Steve kisses it away.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

“You’ve dealt with enough of my shit,” he says, one side of his mouth quirking up. “I think we’re far overdue for some Steve time.”

“Steve time?” You cock a brow, and he grins.

“The Steve Harrington Support Squad,” he says. “Here for all your love and snuggle needs.”

“Snuggle needs?” Another laugh slips past your lips, and Steve’s expression brightens.

“Did you know you have the most beautiful laugh?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It will get me _everywhere_ ,” he says. You smile, and duck your chin against his chest.

“ _Maybe_ ,” you mumble. His chest rumbles as he laughs, arms winding around you. You crane your head to look at him, a grateful smile tugging up your lips. That permeating numbness shifts, softens, gives way to the emotions that are piled up behind depression’s wall. With the fall, both the good and the bad spill out, but right now, if only right now, there’s more happy than sad, more warmth than ice.

“Thank you,” you say softly. Steve smiles, a tiny, gentle, stomach-twisting smile, and kisses your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Always.”

And you believe him. The cold, sad, aching is still there, and there is no promise that it will ever leave on a one way trip. But at least, at the very least, the weight on your shoulders isn’t as heavy, not with Steve shouldering half. With Steve beside you, it doesn’t feel like shouldering much at all.


End file.
